Author's Notes:
Oh, look, another thing I wrote for a prompt and never got around to reposting. This must have been sitting on my computer since, like, September, since it is set immediately after the second "Pond Life" minisode. It was written for the prompt, "So, the Ponds are having marriage problems. Can I get some extremely fluffy Amy/Rory?" and is, accordingly, shameless fluff. I make no excuses. Title from Vienna Teng's "Recessional."

Rory lies awake for a long time after the Doctor leaves. Amy can tell by the irregularity of his breathing and how very still he is that he can’t relax, can’t let himself go. She knows he really does hate this–the interruptions that shake their daily rhythm. The momentary terror that the Doctor lives for is much less thrilling when it’s suspended this way, spilling into their home. Rory jumps at every noise these days as if they aren’t safe even here. And maybe they aren’t, now.

“Hey,” she whispers, shoving gently at his shoulder. “Hey, Rory. You okay?” She can feel the bone sharp under her fingers, closer than she’d expected.

Rory doesn’t answer for a moment, and she wonders if he’s gone to sleep after all. “I’m all right,” he says eventually. He doesn’t open his eyes.

“Are you worried? About what the Doctor said?”

He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. “It’s just…hard to compartmentalize when he comes round shouting about aliens and monsters in the middle of the night.”

“Yeah.” Amy doesn’t know what to say. She’s always been used to this lack of boundaries–she grew up with the universe pouring through her wall, once upon a time. It never stops scaring her, but she’s never known anything else, or wanted to, really. Rory isn’t like her, and she knows it hurts him sometimes. She watches him roll over, push himself up to hunch on the edge of the bed. His spine stands out beneath the fabric of his shirt, and he rests his head in his hands. Now muffled, his breathing sounds even rougher than before.

Their bed is small, but even so he’s just out of reach. Amy bites her lip. She’s not sure if he even wants to be touched. After a moment, she creeps up behind him, taking it as a good sign when he doesn’t move away. She lays a hand between his shoulder blades and feels the warmth of him as steady as ever. As she rubs his back, he softens a bit, lowering his hands to his lap.

“It’ll be okay, Rory,” she says, and he gives a little nod.

“I hope so.” He sounds tired more than upset. The tension is going from his muscles, and he leans against her. It’s a comfortable weight. Amy smiles.

“Come on,” she says. “You’ve got work in the morning.”

Rory looks at the clock and groans. “Oh, god, don’t remind me.” He pecks her on the cheek before turning to crawl under the covers again. He lies close against her back, his ridiculous nose poking her behind the ear like always. Back to normal, or almost. Amy, anyway, feels very safe indeed.